


The Ill Made Monk

by sasha_b



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Inner Dialogue, Post-Season/Series 01, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: The monk heals.  Post season one.
Relationships: Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 98





	The Ill Made Monk

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for all of season one. There is also some inspiration taken from the book as well as the show.

The sun baked down on them.

The monk wanted to cover his head with his cowl, but he found when he tried to lift his arm, it swung uselessly in the socket, and the boy had to help shift him back up in the saddle when he almost fell trying to lay it awkwardly across his lap.

They were riding through a denuded forest; a huge battle had taken place here, and he wondered while squinting at the harsh light above them if it had been a battle he’d taken place in. Had started. Had he burned these trees? Been responsible for taking out the village that had sat by the side of this road? He didn’t remember.

There were too many, too many dead faces and places and he wavered and the world tripped and spun and forced him to shut his eyes, the heat cloaking him almost as well as the cowl always had.

*

He fell out of the saddle, the leather creaking and the boy shouting for _\- help, please, we need to help him, he’s one of us -_

*

“Hey.”

Someone kicked at him, and he sat up and snatched for his broadsword before he could think or take a breath. And then he fell over backward again, as the motion made him as dizzy as he’d ever been and he wanted to vomit but instead he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fingers until the feeling passed.

“You. Open your eyes.”

He did as he was bid, and he realized that he didn’t have his broadsword, or even his cloak. Instead, he was clad in shirt and trousers and boots, and his left arm was bound in a sling tightly to his body, and he could _feel_ hundreds of fae around him. He blinked and struggled to sit, the man staring at him doing nothing to help.

It was night outside, although he could only tell that by the breeze and the sound of fires crackling. He was inside a tent, and when he tried to move closer to the other man, he jerked against chains that held him tethered to the cot he laid in, and into the ground. He blinked again, the overwhelming sense of others threatening to make him choke.

“What do you want?”

“Why did you help Squirrel?”

He blinked harder, his eyes watering. He was still dizzy, although not as badly as before. “He’s a boy,” he said, as though the question was stupid. He forced himself to a complete sitting position with his right hand, and moved enough so he was facing the man and the door flap to the tent.

“You’ve killed plenty of boys. And girls. And women and men. What difference does it make?”

The snarl in the dark haired man’s voice was enough to make the monk look up at him and meet his eyes. His mouth was dry and his throat felt like he’d swallowed glass, but his arm seemed better and he wasn’t hungry. That was odd. He swallowed again, the shooting glass finding its way there again. “Yes,” he answered. “And it just does.”

_Father, do you love me?_

_You’re my best weapon, boy. Don’t make me sorry I saved you from that pit._

“Why shouldn’t I kill you on the spot?”

“Because he’s one of us!”

The boy Percival was at his side suddenly with a skin of water. The monk took it, and swallowed away some of the glass. He didn’t answer, but what the boy had said was true. He was.

And he’d spent his entire existence snuffing out others like him.

He wanted to black out.

But he took another sip gingerly, and handed the skin back to Percival. “Thank you,” he said, gravel in his words and in his thoughts, and he looked back at the man carrying what he now realized was _his_ broadsword. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “You can.”

_I would deserve it. And more._

But would he? He hadn’t known anything else. He’d been pulled from a charnel pit by the church and had been given a chance at life, be it a horrid one, for being fae and for having the skills that he did. And he’d done what the church had asked, as he hadn’t known anything else, and he’d been loved –

Oh, no, he hadn’t.

He looked at the boy again. He saw faith in that gaze, and this time he turned and vomited to the side as he’d wanted to before.

*

It was dark again.

He sat up, needing to relieve himself, and like magic, the boy was there.

“Come on,” Percival smiled at him. “Pym said it was safe for you to walk. Not like she’s really a healer,” the sarcasm in his tone funny for one so young.

“Come on, Lancelot,” he said, and the monk snatched a hand out and grabbed the boy’s shoulder.

“No,” his voice was stone cold, and the boy stopped. “Not yet.”

Percival/Squirrel nodded, and the monk/Lancelot – no, not yet – knew the boy understood.

He staggered to his feet, not used to the absence of his robes around his ankles, but the boy helped him, and as he took care of his bodily needs outside the back of the tent, the boy’s hand at his side, he stared up at the sky, the stars that dotted it winking at him, accusingly.

He wasn’t sure for what, though, as the list was so very long.

*

The sun.

He blinked, and sat up, more easily this time.

The other man was there and staring at him. He could hear the crashing of waves from somewhat far off, and could smell salt air for the first time since he’d arrived here.

“You’re better.”

The monk cocked his head to one side, and moved his now unbound arm. His right hand was still shackled to the ground, though. “Seem to be.”

“Squirrel will bring you to the council this afternoon,” the man said, and turned his back on the monk – which in normal circumstances might not be a good idea – but then canted his head ‘round to look at him. “If she were here, she’d have killed you already.”

Now _that_ was interesting information. He shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his hair – the tonsure was beginning to grow back in, the cross scar slowly hidden – and then dropped his hand to his lap. He was weak. “Stop talking about it, and just do it, then.”

The other man hesitated, but flung back the flap of the tent and stormed out, no further words spoken. The monk watched him go, and narrowed his eyes at the sun that sparkled off the hilt of the man’s sword. This time it wasn’t the monk’s, and he wondered with a bit of anxiety that hadn’t shown its face in a while just where his might be.

*

The council was about six peop- no, fae. And one Viking woman, and one man blood, whose name turned out to be Arthur.

The monk still hadn’t been given his robes or anything else besides a crutch to walk with so he wouldn’t continuously have to rely on Percival or the young woman healer, but the boy stayed at his side regardless. His arm was free, but the shoulder would require much more time. He’d pulled his hair clumsily back into a knot that hid his disappearing tonsure, and he stood, stinking and dirty, in the same clothes he’d escaped from the Paladins in.

They were arguing. He ignored it and looked down at the boy, who was staring at him and surprisingly – winked at him. He had to suppress a laugh as if it were a cough.

What was a laugh? It felt like swallowing had in the beginning – glass.

“You’ll be fine, Lan- monk. They’re just posturing. I’ve already told them they don’t have no choice.” He elbowed the monk and the monk met the boy’s eyes with a raised brow. “Oh?”

“You’re one of us. You saved me. End of story.” The boy took his turn to shrug just as the council of fae were turning to speak. Arthur’s face was red, but he kept his mouth shut. He wore two swords, and the monk saw with some relief one of them was his this time.

The surf near them crashed and the salt air filled the open tent as the council told him in no uncertain terms he was to stay with them, and be allowed short excursions to help with the seasonal planting and perhaps – perhaps if he proved his worth, he would be given a small knife and could be trusted to help with the skinning and dressing of food.

He was surprised at the feeling of reprieve that ruling gave him, and almost tripped over his own feet as Percival lead him out of the tent, the sounds of arguing returning to his ears as they made their way up the banks, near to the rocky scrub that sufficed as land to grow on here. He wondered how long this ragtag group would stay here, but then he remembered the words that Arthur had unwittingly spoken.

_If she were here_

They were waiting, then. For some news, or for her to appear, or something. He wondered what had happened, and for the first time in what seemed like a true eternity, he told himself he would ask about what had gone on while he’d been healing.

He cared, for the first time in

That pit he’d been found in

He’d lived, at a great cost

And the cost of other’s lives.

He shook his head, this time stumbling so badly the boy had to help him up.

*

Sunset.

He sat on a dune, eating a small roll stuffed with messy goat’s cheese, and didn’t jump for the first time when the boy appeared next to him. After a moment, the monk handed the boy some of the bread and cheese, and the boy ate silently as they both watched the surf.

“Your people are leaving soon,” he said after the sun had finished its decent into the ocean. He had to admit, it was a sight. He remembered only blood, and pain, and the lash, and being alone. This was – not wrong, any more, but it wasn’t right either.

His robes had been returned to him, cleaned and repaired, and the first thing he’d done was to burn the beads and crucifix he’d found in the pocket. He wasn’t sure if that had been the right thing to do, but that god didn’t speak to him anymore, if He ever had, and the monk – Lancelot – didn’t feel right keeping a relic of his past, even if it was recent, when it provided him no justice or peace.

He tucked the grey robe under his legs as the evening breeze rose, and the boy nodded. “Yours too," he said, but Lancelot didn't respond to that. "Uh huh. There’s been word of a sighting – they want to follow it. We’re losing planting land and the animals have almost been killed clean off. It’s time.” He made a face and rested his head in his hand, turning to look at Lancelot. “You?”

Lancelot’s long hair was clubbed back except for the shorter pieces that now hid his scar completely. He impatiently tied those back with the others and twisted his mouth. “I don’t think I have a choice. They still don’t trust me.” _I don’t trust me._ He’d been given his sword, grudgingly, after four months of hunting and gathering and digging trenches and sewing and weapon repair and barely any words spoken, save for those to the boy Percival and the woman Pym. The wind kicked up and he touched the birthmark that dragged down his right cheek, the thing that should have given him away instantly to the fae that had followed the girl. He was still surprised at how long his secret had stayed secret.

“You could leave,” the boy said. “I don’t think Arthur or the Spear would care. Or the rest of the council, to be honest.” He laughed when the monk – _no, Lancelot now, finally, again, if only to the boy_ \- snorted and rolled his lips into a thin line. “I care, though. So does Pym.”

The healer. Sort of. “Thank you,” Lancelot said. The boy touched his arm and he looked at Percival again. “I do. You saved me.”

The waves hit the beach, and Lancelot realized he could hear the sounds of packing and people moving about more readily than normal. “You have any idea where she might be? Do you really think she’s still alive? After that story?”

Merlin was back, his power was back, and supposedly – he was the most dangerous man Lancelot had ever heard about, or seen. Other than himself.

And the Witch – Nimue – he didn’t know that he believed she still lived. But…the council did, and they wanted to find out. Especially after they’d been left alone for so long. And they owed Uther Pendragon a debt of blood.

“Yes,” Percival said unquestioningly. “She’s the Fae Queen. And the Wolf Blood Witch. And she’s Nimue, so yes, I do.” He sighed and rubbed his face, and Lancelot could almost remember what it was like to be young and not terrified and covered in blood. For only the briefest of seconds.

Lancelot stood and dusted the sand off his backside, and by habit tucked the robes he wore behind the pommel of his sword. He missed riding. He missed the land, and he missed stone walls, and he missed -

_Do you love me, Father?_

“God,” he murmured. Questioned.

The boy was standing too, behind him and far enough away to not hear the next words he spoke.

“Who am I?”

His back was a mess of scars, and he was awkward and exhausted and covered in blood – phantasmagorical blood, but nonetheless – and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to shed its red hue or its stickiness that coated his skin and soul and he shivered, the birthmarks on his face feeling thick and uncomfortable and he took a step toward the camp, then back toward the ocean. He could swim, could make for the next coast, and never show his face here again, start anew, live life –

live

live life. Live?

Who didn’t know the weeping monk?

Who didn’t know his face or legend, even if they didn’t know his true name?

He looked down at the sword he wore, and remembered the beatings he’d been given at the hands of the Father and the Paladins, remembered the beatings he’d given himself in the name of God and his beliefs.

The stars came out, and he turned to face the ocean completely, and when the boy reached him, the birthmarks and the wetness on his face tracked simultaneously, together, matching.

Salty like blood and iron.

Percival took his hand and the monk Lancelot jumped. “You come with us.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered, not looking at the boy. “I don’t know anything any more.”

He ached more than any time in his life ever.

But warmth from the small hand in his made him look down finally, and he could see the woman Pym, the healer, approaching them from the tents. “You come with us,” the boy repeated. “Lancelot, you come.”

His scars were like chains across his body, and the sword was a stone at his hip. His face burned and his heart fluttered, a bird trapped and suddenly wingless; his robes were stiff and heavy and the red headed woman joined the two of them, she taking up a stance at his other side. Her smile, and the boy's, scalded him to the bone.

“Alright,” he said.

~

**Author's Note:**

> So...I might have made this up, but I could swear that Father Carden took the monk from a charnel pit where his people were dying. After flipping through the book again and looking online, I can't find it. So we're just gonna go with that as my personal canon unless one of y'all can help me. Derp. ;)
> 
> I love rambly self-monologue and since Lancelot (any version) is pretty much my favorite character in all of literature, this was certainly fun to do. Let me know if you'd like to see me continue with it!
> 
> Thanks to TH White for the title inspiration.
> 
> Thank you for the time/read/kudos/comments! Much appreciated.


End file.
